


Definitely Unexpected

by fabella



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Miranda is probably drowning in that shower it lasts so long, Missing Scene, Morning After, Oral Sex, Peter is learning, Roman is easy, Roman's feelings are not as unrequited as they used to be, Season/Series 02, feelings are messy, past Miranda/Roman/Peter, post episode: s02ep06, pretty sure this is what actually happened the next day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2226546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabella/pseuds/fabella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene. The morning after the threesome. The morning before the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Definitely Unexpected

A toilet flushing sucked Peter into the waking world. Peter kicked at the sound, noting on some level the smooth slip of fabric under his ankle. He unbent his arm to scratch his side, then wiggled the back of his skull deeper into the pillow, determined to eek out that last dregs of comfort from the ridiculously expensive memory foam. It conformed instantly to the shape of his head. Pleasure radiated from every point of contact between his back and the mattress.

Eyes squeezed tight, Peter stretched his legs to their full length and arched into the pink heat of the morning sun, unconcerned by the wide hand flattened on his collarbone. It swept slowly to his belly and scratched. The string in Peter’s groin answered with a perky little tug: _good morning to you, too_. The scratching fingers paused, then slipped lower, dragging firmly through the hair that trailed to his pubic bone. Peter’s dick thickened with unhurried ease. He hummed lowly in welcome.

“Woof, woof,” Roman said, close to his ear. 

“Holy fuck!”

Peter jackknifed awake, rocking the bed.

Roman rode the shaking mattress with a beatific smile, hands now decidedly to himself under his own head. His elbows stuck out like elephant ears. Peter growled and grabbed one of the chubby pillows. It hit Roman’s smirking face with a satisfying _thwap_. Peter huffed and dropped to the mattress to resume luxuriating. Roman’s unholy grin remained as he plucked the pillow off and stuffed it under his armpit, turning to his side to face Peter. This brought them close enough that Peter could count the pores on Roman’s cheekbones. Blackhead free, of course. Upirs were blessed with perfect skin, apparently.

“Morning, baby boy,” Roman said, floppy hair and pointy nose. “Still tired?”

“Not a good sleeper. Gotta admit this bed is like sleeping on a cloudy tit, though. Too long sleeping in the back seat of the wagon. This is a serious step up.”

Peter yawned for emphasize, jaw cracking.

“Anytime,” Roman said.

Peter sighed. “If only, man.”

“I’m serious,” Roman said, inflectionless, making Peter peep at him, and yeah, Peter knew he was, because the sky was blue, water and dirt made mud, and Roman Godfrey was in love with him. If he hadn’t known it before last night, Roman’s mouth fused so tightly to his own, like Roman wanted to sew their souls together, or at least their faces, would have been his first clue. Roman twitched an eyebrow, sleepy gaze flicking side to side as he scanned Peter’s expression.

“Where’s Miranda?” Peter asked.

“In the shower,” Roman answered. “She warned me to let you sleep. No funny business without her.”

“Bossy,” Peter said. “I should have known she’d be a top.”

Peter scrubbed his tongue over the back of his teethe and considered the pink impression on Roman’s chest roughly the size and shape of Peter’s bite. The shower turned on behind the bathroom door, followed faintly by Miranda’s voice attempting a husky rendition of _Ain't No Sunshine_. Peter’s brain booted up with an overheated spin. _They were alone._

Roman shifted a few inches closer, moving off the pillow to rest on the black sheet. He looked more like the boy Peter remembered, stinging green eyes answering questions Peter didn’t know to ask. Roman’s throat stretched in a long, easy line, and Peter’s tongue fattened inelegantly. Either people fell into his lap or they didn't. That was his way. Only, Roman was different, in more than the obvious blood drinking fiend ways, and Peter wasn't dumb enough (anymore) to ignore the siren song ringing between his ears anytime Roman came even close enough to spit on.

“She uses half of Hemlock Lake when she showers,” Roman said, then bit his lower lip. “How about it, Rumancek, wanna get in trouble?”

It was a joke. Clearly. Roman’s dry flippancy would lead to a good chuckle like it always did. 

Peter didn’t actually give a shit. His bones hurt, and Roman’s morning breath was the nicest thing Peter had ever smelled in his brutal little life. Besides, Roman plucked at the fabric between them, a faint undercurrent of _not taking it back until you make me_ in the lowered slant of his eyelashes. Roman more than half wanted Peter to take him seriously.

So. 

_Screw it._

Roman froze when Peter drifted toward the stale wash of his breath, fingers pinched in black silk. He stayed as still and quiet as any squirrel after a foolish leap; shocked, maybe, that Peter hadn't shied away lacking the convenient excuse of a woman in bed with them. If only he could know Peter was 100% down with getting down without a bunch of messy words. Peter placed a hand on Roman’s sharp cheek, shifted his thumb to graze swollen lips that were flushed from last night’s abuse. If Roman needed the words, Roman would get the fucking words.

“I hurt you, huh,” Peter said. 

“A+, Rumancek. You did the reading, I guess.”

Roman wasn't actually that funny, but Peter struggled manfully on.

“I knew it would, but I still did it. It’s OK if you hate me.”

Roman smiled, sort of. “Is this about your ego?”

“I should have stayed to take care of you,” Peter said. “You needed me.”

“Not your job,” Roman said, abruptly serious. He turned so that Peter’s hand covered the bottom half of his face, lips ghosting over Peter’s callused palm, moist air slipping through dry cracks. Roman placed a soft kiss on Peter’s heart line, the crisscrossed mess of it, green eyes rapt above scabbed knuckles. “You were busy. Lost my number.”

“You don’t really think that,” Peter said. “I’m an asshole.”

Roman didn't reply.

“I really am,” Peter admitted, and slapped the center of his own chest. “A real piece of shit, that’s me. You fucking scare me, so we’re even.”

“I’m pretty scary,” Roman said, a ton of baggage barely strapped down behind every spoken word. “Turns out I was the bad guy all along.”

“Bad ass, maybe,” Peter said. “I know you. You’re the good guy, Roman. It’s not easy or natural, and it’s who you are. You choose it.”

Roman shook his head, but Peter pressed Roman’s lips apart with his thumb and forefinger, revealing the lethal tips of his incisors. It was easy to imagine those teeth as weapons, rending flesh and the bone beneath with equal speed. Hunger pulsed through Peter’s blood, a collision of antibodies and antigens signaling the destruction of cells, like the wolf signaling the correct time to turn. Peter dragged his fingers over the front of the teeth, dipped to test their sharpness. Roman grabbed his wrist and wrenched it away.

“Don’t,” Roman hissed, squirming.

“I missed you,” Peter hissed back. “I watched those stupid psycho movies you like. And, your laugh. I mean, it’s so weird what you find funny, and you laugh like a bullfrog, but I missed you.” Peter flexed his captured hand, caged, heart pounding harder and harder. _Words, words, words._ “I left, but I always, if I could just--- _come back, maybe_ \---ugh, I suck at this. Sorry.”

Roman released him one finger at a time, forehead and cheeks a splotchy red like he was developing a rash. Peter blew out a stream of calming air. It ruffled Roman’s hair. Peter reached out to touch Roman’s shoulder gently, tracing the shape of it with care that said more than he could illustrate with his feeble grasp of linguistic communication. Roman hissed at the kindness, shuddering without a word. Peter mouthed where his fingers had been, tasting salt, and allowed himself to peruse Roman’s naked rangy body: thin muscle stretched over miles and miles of violence structured into a skeletal shape, all of it on display but for a square of sheet covering Roman’s groin.

Roman was his for the asking, and Peter knew it, _had_ known it. Before, it had sent him to the other side of the continent, but now it made his mouth water. The softest part of Roman was where his stomach collected in a slight pooch where he rested on his side, and the vulnerable crease of skin softened Peter’s spine into room temperature butter. Peter realized it was over for him. 

It was this or it was nothing.

This is why Destiny always wanted him to run.

It was all so dramatic that it was tempting to jump in front of a bus.

“I could make eggs,” Roman rambled, cringing under Peter’s dedicated attention. “Uh, just scrambled though. Or, we have apples. I think. I don’t really, uh, eat much. There’s---like, twelve fucking types of baby formula. Nadia is a little princess.”

“Kiss me first,” Peter said.

Roman hesitated and swiped his bottom lip with his tongue, leaving a sheen behind. Peter used one hand to push Roman flat and kissed him firmly on his anxious mouth. He tasted like old ass and cigarettes but it didn't matter. Roman grabbed the back of Peter’s head, getting his fingers tangled up as he instantly returned the kiss, all mistrust vanished into the puffing hot air between the clacking bump of their teeth. When Peter bent to suck under Roman’s jaw, he felt the vibration of Roman’s intense groan. He clutched Peter’s skull tightly, _full steam ahead_.

“Is it my birthday?” Roman joked, moving his chin so Peter could reach the other side of his neck.

Peter wasn't bothered to answer. He had what he wanted and the time for words was over. He nipped at Roman’s collarbone. His left nipple. Between Peter’s own thighs, his dick throbbed with every pump of blood from his heart, but that was a physical yearning and it couldn't compete with the heart of his need.

Peter ran his hands down Roman’s arms to where Roman’s hands were still buried in his hair, and grabbed there forcefully, flexing over them for emphasis, before he dropped his hands to rub over the smooth surface of Roman’s lightly muscled chest. Roman arched, grimacing with lust.

“Peter,” Roman said, erection bumping insistently against Peter’s sternum. “Do something. Or I swear to god, I will bring you outside, tie you to a fire hydrant, and leave you.”

No way Roman tied him to anything but himself, but whatever.

_House rules, right?_

Peter got a solid grip on Roman’s pretty hips and sucked a popping kiss into his pretty belly. And as Roman’s breath sped noticeably, stomach contracting and spasming, Peter lurched low and sunk his nose into Roman’s pubic hair, inhaling. Roman smelled of sweat and dried come, then just a little bit like Peter after he had rolled around in the dirt as a wolf. Even Roman’s erection would have been pretty if it weren't stupidly big, all soft pink where it wasn’t flushed purple. It gleamed with the drop of fluid that dribbled from the slit in his glans. Peter blew on it and watched Roman shudder all over.

“Do it,” Roman said, yanking roughly on Peter’s hair.

Peter took Roman an inch into his mouth and sucked, flavor bursting onto his tongue and into his bloodstream like a direct injection of pheromones. He moaned around Roman’s dick and Roman juddered in his grasp like a dying motor, hips rocking spasmodically, voice thready and weak when he cried out.

“Oh fuck, Peter. I can’t even--- _fuck, fuck, fuck_.”

Roman’s darkened eyes never blinked as Peter took Roman deeper and blew him. He rubbed through Peter’s hair, so gentle now, pushed it off his face and petted it, over and over, like Peter was performing a truly ingenious trick. Drool slipped from the sides of Peter’s mouth and cooled on his chin, but he couldn't give a shit, not now, not when he had Roman bowing off the bed and gasping, the tendons in his neck bulging. Peter swirled his tongue around the spongy head, and Roman jabbed his hips upward, dick hitting the back of Peter’s throat.

Peter gagged and shoved Roman to the mattress by his hips, chasing him down with suction. And just like that, not three minutes in, semen filled Peter’s mouth in bitter pulses and Roman cried out, high pitched. Peter swallowed easily and gentled the suction until Roman’s penis had softened. Roman collapsed, still hanging onto Peter’s head, chest heaving. Peter untangled Roman’s clinging fingers and pulled back. He wiped his mouth while Roman watched him through narrowed eyelids. 

“Was that another apology?” Roman asked.

Peter shrugged, held one hand up, _maybe_ , then dropped it and shook his head.

“As clear as ever,” Roman observed. “Fuck you, Rumancek. You need a fucking therapist.”

“I’d do it again,” Peter said firmly. “I plan to. You‘re gonna get fucked so often you’ll start standing all day at the office.”

Roman cocked an eyebrow, breathing leveling out.

“Sure of that?”

“Gonna have your ass for this, Godfrey,” Peter growled, climbing over Roman to hold the other man down with the entire weight of his body. Peter’s hand ended up above Roman’s head. He stroked the fine hair away from Roman’s forehead, fingers running through the sandy strands. Not a single tangle dared to obstruct his path. “Again, and again, and again. Can you handle that?”

Roman responded with a dazed smile. Big green eyes. He reached out and carefully slid his palm over Peter’s hairy jaw. The simple touch stung Peter’s throat. Roman briefly covered Peter’s eyes, then stubbed the tip of his nose. _Boop._ Peter rubbed against Roman’s wandering hand, gently scratching nails, watching and watched, as an abstract construction of Roman’s feelings for Peter was built by the shapes made from trailing fingertips.

“Kiss me first,” Roman said, mockingly. “Kiss my juicy mouth.”

He puckered those obscene lips and kissed the air loudly. Peter chuckled, and bent.

The shower stopped. Peter froze, hovering an inch above Roman’s mouth. His necklace dangled between them, bumping over Roman’s collarbone. Roman opened one eye, then the other, a raw happiness in his expression that Peter had rarely seen. It hurt to look at. Roman blinked at him in the space, head off the pillow, waiting. Some of that stubborn light still shone. Until it didn't. Peter watched Roman’s pupils shrink, green eclipsing the world, then Roman fell away from him and turned his face away.

“Never fucking fails,” he muttered.

 _Fair enough_ , Peter thought.

“Listen,” Peter said.

“Go make coffee.” Roman stared blankly at the framed photo of the Godfrey Steel Mill, voice flat like the side of a blade. “Knowing the rank shit you normally drink, you better not start screwing the cup after you’re done with it.”

Peter growled, annoyed.

The floor squeaked in the bathroom. Miranda cursed audibly. She’d be back in the room in maybe three minutes, tops. This buffet was closed for now.

Peter sighed, cracked the aching bones in his back, bent, and grabbed the sides of Roman’s face to bring him around. Roman grunted and tried to shove free, but Peter held on, attaching his lips firmly to Roman’s furrowed brow. Roman’s eyelashes fluttered against his chin.

“I won’t be with her again,” he said, to Roman’s skin. A nearly silent gasp answered him. “If you want her, and she wants you, have her. Be fucking happy. If you want me, then we’ll talk. You’re important, and I’m---I’ll be around for, uh, whatever you want.”

With that, Peter climbed out of the warm bed , jostling the mattress in the wake of his exit. He felt Roman watching him while he hunted for his jeans, and found them tangled with Roman’s pants. Funniest fucking thing how the legs could hardly be separated. Lynda had said the gods always knew, even when Peter wouldn't listen. She’d also said the people here needed him, but it was really just Roman.

Dressed, Peter shrugged the dirty coat over his shoulders and dusted off the forearms. This wouldn't be the last time he was in this bedroom.

“When,” Roman started, then cleared his throat. Peter turned at the bedroom door, to Roman propped up on his elbows in the expanse of black sheets, a vision of pale skin, seriously enormous feet, and messy hair. “You know I want that talk. You don’t want to do it now, so when?”

Peter tried to smile. Shrugged. 

“After kids stop dying would be a good start.”

Roman tightened his fists in the sheet. 

“That’s a deal, Rumancek. You better be here after.”

In the kitchen, Peter fought with Roman’s coffeemaker. It didn't seem to have a spot for the filter. Or a power switch. Peter smacked it a couple times, but that didn't do the trick. Roman appeared soundlessly at Peter’s side a moment later, dressed in the softest looking green cotton and dark pants. He still smelled like them together. Peter kept his silence as Roman popped a lever Peter hadn't noticed, stuck something somewhere, and pressed a button. 

It worked. The machine whirred to beautiful mechanical life.

Peter stepped away and put his back against the wall, hands shoved deeply into his jacket pockets so he wouldn't reach out. Roman clutched himself a foot away and scratched his neck.

“So,” Peter said. Stupid. So fucking stupid.

Roman didn’t quite meet his eyes. “So.”

“Last night…” 

“Right.” Roman nodded.

“Was kind of…” Peter trailed off. Again.

“Unexpected.”

“Yeah. Definitely unexpected.”

Roman grabbed the brewed coffee and began to bring the cup to his own mouth, but Peter reached out, _gimme, gimme,_ and as usual, like a familiar song starting on the radio, Roman gave Peter what he wanted. Roman’s fingertips paused achingly in the air when Peter took the cup, and seconds later, Miranda emerged in a pocket of lotion scented air to kiss Peter sweetly on the cheek. Roman looked on, face blank but for a hint of distaste even as she swung energetically to kiss his cheek as well. Roman’s green eyes flickered to Peter, and Peter thought, toothily: _She doesn’t even know she’s lost yet_.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even feel like this is too out of character. They definitely had to wake up at some point, right? And Miranda was fresh out of the shower. I'm just gonna go ahead and let this be canon in my head, thanks.


End file.
